Just Another Angel (27 page)

‘Yes. How did you know?' Surprise registered in her eyes. She was really running the whole gamut of her emotions now.

‘How were you going to get there?'

‘First hovercraft from Dover this morning. I have all my stuff in the back.'

She wasn't going to volunteer anything.

‘How did he get the shotgun?' I was curious. Did she have the power to persuade Nevil to provide his own murder weapon?

‘It must have been Bill Stubbly. He's been supplying Jack with bits and pieces since he got out.'

‘What hold did Jack have over Stubbly?'

‘He owned the club. Has done for a couple of years.'

That explained a lot and confirmed that everyone had known what had been going on except me. There was nothing more to be gained from talking to her.

‘You can still make it,' I said.

‘Make what?' She frowned.

‘The ferry – the hovercraft – whatever. To France, as the song says. Go for it.'

She gave me an up-from-under look, but only about quarter strength, so my legs didn't melt and my heart hardly fluttered.

Still cool as anything, she reached forward and started the engine.

‘I'd get rid of the gun if I were you,' I advised, sensible as always.

‘I will,' she said. Then she put her hands behind her neck and something came away in her fingers.

She held out her left hand through the half-open window. I put mine under it and she unclasped her fist. When I looked, I was holding the emerald pendant with the ‘JJ' inscription.

‘I don't want you to be out of pocket,' she said, ‘and I won't be needing that any more.'

I slipped it into my jacket and climbed back into Armstrong to ease him back out of her way.

She didn't look at me as she drove off, and I waited until her tail lights had gone before I nipped out to recover the crisp box from the fire exit of the Mimosa.

I hate long goodbyes anyway.

 

I suppose I should have got Duncan the Drunken out of bed by throwing pebbles at his bedroom window and whistling softly, but where the hell do you find pebbles in Barking at 4.30 am? So I did the next best thing. I found a phone-box where the phone worked and the box didn't smell too badly of urine because the ventilation had been improved by somebody stealing the door. They've got a good sense of community in Barking. I rang Duncan's number and let the receiver hang loose. By the time I got through the last couple of streets, he'd be standing in the hallway swearing into his phone and just getting an earful of pip-pip-pip-pip sounds.

He was. I could hear the foul language from the doorstep, and when I rang the bell, he slammed the phone down with an audible crack.

‘Hello, Duncan,' I said with a smile, ‘you're up early.'

The smile wasn't difficult, despite what I'd been through. Duncan was wearing only tartan carpet slippers and a pair of Fred Flintstone boxer shorts. It would have made a Jehovah's Witness smirk.

‘Angel.' Duncan scratched his stomach. ‘What in buggery are you doing here at this time?'

‘Just passing, Duncan, and I saw your light on. I need some help.'

‘Oh aye? Well, it's lucky I was up, wasn't it? Bring yourself in and put the kettle on. I'll go and tell Doreen not to fret.'

‘Who is it, Duncan?' yelled Doreen from upstairs.

‘That daft pillock Angel, honeybun. You go back to sleep.'

Honeybun? Well it seemed to reassure her; she was snoring loudly before the kettle whistled.

Duncan pulled on a pair of overalls and straddled a kitchen chair while I served him his tea.

‘You've hurt yer hand,' he said, like other people say it's raining.

‘It's a hard life out there, Dunc.'

I sipped some tea and burnt my lips. I was more convinced than ever that Duncan had an asbestos mouth.

‘You in bother, then?'

‘No,' I said fairly truthfully, ‘I think I've just got out of it, but I need a bit of help covering my tracks.'

‘Oh aye?' that was a bad sign; he was thinking about it.

‘I don't want money,' I said hastily, and he relaxed visibly. He was a Yorkshireman, after all. ‘I need a motor for a few days.'

‘What sort?' Duncan the professional.

‘Anything with four wheels and a tax disc.'

‘For how long?' Duncan the very professional.

‘Until you've repaired Armstrong.'

He considered this, then stood up and put his mug in the sink.

‘Better have a look, then.'

Outside, he ran a wise old hand over Armstrong's radiator and bonnet. Then he put his hands on his hips and narrowed his eyes at me. There was the first gleam of a dirty dawn in the sky, but Duncan could size up a motor blindfold at night.

‘Been grouse-shooting, have we?'

‘I thought that was illegal before the twelfth of August.'

Duncan scratched his head.

‘Well, I don't reckon there's owt here that Doreen can't put right.'

‘Doreen?'

‘Aye. Didn't I tell you she was doing panel beating at night school?'

How on earth could that have slipped my mind?

‘Well, to be honest, Duncan, I hadn't thought of Doreen using Armstrong as homework.'

‘It'll be right, lad. I'll guarantee all the work and respray him meself.'

Well, that was something, though Duncan's famous three-hour parts and labour guarantees were not worth the bits of paper they were scribbled on. But I was too tired to argue.

‘What about a stand-in? And please, not that Kraut Transit again.'

Duncan smiled. ‘Got a good price for that the other day. No, I've just the thing for you, but I'll have to charge you.'

‘How much?'

‘A ton, on condition you keep the mileage below five hundred a week.'

‘A ton a week? You franchising for Hertz these days?'

‘But wait till you see what I have in mind.'

I let Duncan drive Armstrong round to his lock-up and open the doors. Armstrong would be out of sight and out of mind of any curious policeman there, unless of course Duncan got raided, which wasn't beyond the bounds of possibilities. But then it would take a pretty tough policeman to confront Doreen in full panel-beating swing.

Inside the lock-up was an ancient Morris Minor badly in need of repair, but worth its weight in rust to collectors these days.

Duncan saw my face as he got out of Armstrong.

‘No, not that – that.'

He pointed to his left, and I turned my aching head and then immediately cheered up at the sight of a bright red Mercedes 190; what some people call the ‘baby Merc' but in Hampstead is known as ‘the second Merc.'

I clapped Duncan on the shoulder with my good hand.

‘Duncan, it's perfect.'

What the hell, I could afford it. And it would make Frank and Salome furious.

 

Frank was furious all right, but more because I made him come down from the top floor in Stuart Street and open the front door. I thought that was a bit of a selfish attitude, as he would have been up at 6.30 anyway showing off his new jogging Nikes. Or was it the Reeboks this week? I lose track.

I'd driven the Merc very gingerly. After Armstrong, it was the difference between surgery with a laser and amputation with a chainsaw. But I
made it somehow, parked right behind Frank's and Salome's Golf and staggered to the door clutching my bag and the crisp box. At that point, I'd more or less given up. The legs had gone rubbery and the brain was like chocolate fudge cake. I knew I had some keys somewhere, but couldn't work out where, and I didn't seem to have a spare hand.

I leant my forehead on the doorbell and heard it ring. I was sure it would be Frank who answered. Lisabeth would be deep in the Land of Nod, Fenella still had her parents with her and nobody ever saw Mr Goodson at the weekend.

‘Yes?' Frank started. ‘What …? Good God, man, you're as white as a sheet!'

‘You're not, Frank,' I beamed, then fell into his arms.

We wrestled for a while as he tried to pick me up. He had the strength to do it easily, but I was a bit bulky and uncooperative as I refused to let go of my bag and crisp box.

He finally got me in a sort of fireman's lift and then proceeded up three flights of stairs. He was in shape, I had to give him that. And so, I was happy to notice, was Salome. Wonderful shape, in fact; or what was showing through the split-front shortie camisole, which was only just decent in three places.

I gave her one of my charmer smiles – I've got good teeth; so show ‘em, that's what I say – but I think it came out more of a leer. Anyway, she took a step back as Frank propped me in a chair.

‘Angel, darling, you look like death,' she said.

‘Don't soft-soap me, Sal, give it to me straight.' I waved my splint at her. The bandages were filthy. I must have resembled a mummy from a cheap horror flick. ‘Do me a favour, just let me kip for a bit.'

‘What's wrong with your place?' asked Frank, breathing deeply, his black, muscular chest heaving with the etc.

‘Lisabeth.'

‘Oh,' they said together.

‘When she's up, just roll me downstairs, okay? Don't ask anything till about Tuesday, huh?'

Salome looked at Frank and shrugged in a ‘why not?' sort of way.

‘One thing,' said Frank, hitching up his pyjama trousers (the trendy traditional sort). ‘Is that your car outside?'

‘Sure,' I said, looking at Salome. ‘I thought I should change my image to keep up with the DINKS.'

He looked puzzled.

‘Double-Income-No-Kids,' Salome explained, then said to me: ‘I always preferred SWELL.'

‘So do I,' I said. Then I fell asleep, leaving her to tell Frank about Single-Women-Earning-Lots-in-London.

 

Lisabeth and Fenella gave me a hero's welcome back to my flat when I surfaced around one o'clock.

Fenella's parents had been seen off back to Rye earlier that morning, so there was general cause for rejoicing, and Lisabeth was already moving back to the marital home.

‘We think it was awfully sweet of you not to wake Lisabeth this morning,' said Fenella. ‘She needs her sleep.'

‘It looks like you had a good party,' said Lisabeth sternly.

‘Party?' I was only just awake and looking for somewhere to stash the crisp box before anyone asked me what was in it.

‘In Plymouth, wasn't it?'

‘Oh yeah, great, great. But it got a bit out of hand.' I showed her my splint. ‘Out of hand. Geddit?'

‘I won't ask how you did that,' she said reprovingly. ‘But I will make you lunch.' She clapped her hands together. ‘How's that? As a welcome home.'

‘Er … fine. Poached eggs on toast with Marmite.' Not even Lisabeth could ruin that, could she?

‘Does Marmite have meat in it?' she said suspiciously.

‘No, it's yeast extract.'

‘Well, okay then.' She sounded dubious. Maybe she had forgotten the recipe.

‘But first I need a complete MOT,' I said, motioning for Fenella to help me off with my jacket.

‘What's that?' asked Fenella.

‘A complete MOT of the person – shit, shower and shave.' She giggled and blushed from the neck up. ‘And I might need somebody to soap my back. I'm not sure I can manage with only one hand.'

‘Binky! Come and help crack these eggs this minute!'

Home sweet home.

I took the crisp box into the bathroom with me and turned the shower on. While it was warming up, I peeled off my clothes and then, stark naked, I riffled through the box.

I hadn't read a
Financial Times
lately, but by my crude arithmetic I had close on eight thousand quid in francs. I could always go and ask Salome; she'd know the exchange rate. But then I decided I'd better have a shower and put some clothes on first. Frank wasn't that broad-minded.

Despite some black looks from Lisabeth, I sat down to lunch wearing only a towel. Lisabeth's poached eggs could have doubled as squash balls, but I was hungry enough not to mind, and it was fun having Fenella lean over me to cut them up for me and butter extra toast.

They shared the washing up and then left for their own pad, offering an invite to dinner that night. I declined, thinking they'd probably rather be alone.

I think Lisabeth felt that too.

At the door, Fenella turned and asked if ‘that rather natty red car' outside was mine, and I said it was.

‘Where's Armstrong?' she quizzed.